We can have forever
by TakeneNe
Summary: Crowley doesn't think when he plants a kiss on Aziraphale's cheek, mumbling hissingly about nosy witches with too much gall and their equally insolent boyfriends. He just does. (Ineffable Kisses through the years, 5 plus 1)


**A/N: **All characters belong to their rightful creators. The title's form_ Who Wants To Live Forever_ by _Queen_

References **Doctor Who** like twice 'cause it's technically part of a series, but it's not essential to the (non)plot here. Don't be shy to check out the other parts on my profile page, tho!

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**We can have forever**

**The first one is an accident.**

Crowley doesn't know how he managed to stumble so badly he fell over, but that's what happened anyway. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the overwhelming giddiness of being free, finally free and boundless and alive and whole and here—

Maybe just temporal lack of grace.

But he fell, face first, hot and burning, straight into the angel's lap. Maybe kneeling on the sofa was not one of his greatest ideas but now he can brush his lips against Aziraphale's jaw, the side of his neck, the scrap of his shoulder as he rattles on and on and on and he thinks he will stay here. It's good. It's outlandish and unfamiliar and familiar and absolutely fantastic all at once and they don't talk about it at all.

**The second one is a joke.**

It's Anathema who brings up the whole relationship thing over tea one day. She looks at them knowingly, mischievously and she can't know the future anymore but it feels like she does. Crowley doesn't like that look. He doesn't like the tension it brings nor the weight of past millennia it touches on. It's unspeakable, ineffable and not to be brought up here, with so many people around. Not now.

He doesn't think when he plants a kiss on Aziraphale's cheek to make her stop and go away and leave them alone, mumbling hissingly about nosy witches with too much gall and their equally insolent boyfriends. He just does.

**The third one sort of happens. **

They're moving in their Cottage where they can be alone and together and unbothered and just be, for a while. For years. For the rest of time. They're moving in and the plants have new homes and the books have new shelves, the cellar is full and everything's in place, waiting. The only thing left is to step inside, look around and say welcome home. Welcome to our life, and look, it's new and exciting, and ours and will only be what we make of it. Look. Breathe it in. Unravel yourself and revel in all unsheathed parts, for this is our eternity now. If you want it.

Hands that find each other when they take the threshold together and lips that whisper sweet promises into battered skin are for that moment and that moment only.

**The fourth one is belated.**

It was never supposed to be like this, Crowley knows. He was never supposed to run away again, holding onto the Blue Box like a lifeline, for years and years and years on end. But he did. And now he's back, standing on his doorstep like a stray with no hope nor courage, soaking in the morning rain.

The air is harsh, cutting into his skin with hundred tiny blades of sand and the sea tumbles ominously behind his back; Crowley watches the sky. He looks straight up, bent backwards almost painfully, heedless of the droplets pouring into his eyes. Looking for answers in the grey, grey silent clouds.

It could've been hours. Or maybe just seconds, he' s never sure, now, but—

There are hands on his cheeks, pulling him down and forwards, and dry lips meeting his own. They taste of salt that might be tears and might be stormy shore air, and of choked out promises. And it feels like coming home.

**The fifth one just is. **

The fireplace burns bright and heavy; the rug under their backs is soft and warm. Comfortable. Crowley pretends to nap, curled halfway atop Aziraphale, content and fond and at peace and at home. They don't have much quiet time just for themselves these days, with aliens and Time Lords and witches and antichrists and madmen popping up for tea, and all the world-ending schemes running about, always in need of some miraculous thwarting. But it's good. It's all right.

There is a gentle hand brushing softly through Crowley's hair and a pair of lips, finding their way to his temple and his forehead over and over and over again and Crowley doesn't know how Heaven could have ever been better than this.

**But who would count, anyway?**

Alpha Centauri is always nice this time of year. Double stars gleam in the endless darkness of the universe so close they could be one as well, dancing together to the celestial music only they can hear. Constantly pulled towards each other by forces as mysterious and insurmountable as beautiful. As ineffable.

And they are dancing, too. Swaying gracelessly in a tight embrace with the sound of warping engines as their only rhythm, as close as their fragile mortal bodies can manage. On another plane, where space and time and matter are only suggestions, their immortal essences, their cores of ethereal power merge together in a dance far more beautiful than any mundane eye could ever bear to witness. No hands, no lips, no skin and no tears are needed to manifest the depths of love they are willingly surrendering to be devoured by.

Now and evermore.

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A/N: Series chronology-wise, the first three happen before the Donna–and–the–Doctor–accidents, and the rest after, in the future you know not of yet. Cuz you know, timey wimey.

Cross-posted from AO3 at _takene_ne_. Come say hi on tumblr at _takenene, _too!


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